


Magic Doesn't Corrupt

by Doceo_Percepto



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Drabbley Drabbley Droo, Gen, Just for funsies, POV Second Person, you are merlin ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 15:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19337032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doceo_Percepto/pseuds/Doceo_Percepto
Summary: But you are becoming afraid that suppressing it does.





	Magic Doesn't Corrupt

Magic corrupts. 

For so long you heard that, and it made you _burn_ because even as _different_ as magic made you, even as its existence isolated you, shackled you to lies and deception that you never _never_ wanted to follow - 

Magic _inspired_ you. Invigorated you. It filled your lungs with gold, your heart with joy. It bubbled and brimmed and overflowed inside you like an ever-flowing stream; it reveled and _breathed_ , so entangled with you that you were one and the same, it was _who_ you were, _what_ you were. But it didn’t end with you. It wrapped around every tree, every bush, every pillar, wall and castle. Even the air itself you could feel as if it were part of you, like little shimmery strings ran through all things living and not, like all the world was connected by one unifying force and you - you were part of this great spider-web, you could shake your own strand and send ripples through the fabric of all reality. Magic was not evil, could never be. It only _was_ , and it relished in its own power. 

Magic doesn’t corrupt. You hate hearing that. You’ve heard it again and again - but it doesn’t, it _doesn’t_. 

It just…

aches. 

To be released. To be _free_. 

It once skated along the surface of your skin, like droplets of water running up and down against all gravity. It lit like a spark to fuel, and you’d be laughing as things happened - simple, simple wonders; flowers swirling in patterns in the air, fire dancing or sometimes, sometimes more. 

“I just want you to be careful,” your mother said once. Her brows were often tight. You hated making her worry. You hated the looks of the other children. No longer could you play with them. You never hurt anyone. _Never_. Magic was wild, but it meant no ill-intent. It didn’t matter. People - people were scared. The word _sorcerer_ lurked under their breath like a curse.

Magic stopped dancing, loose and happy, along your skin. It sank deeper. Danced just under the surface. You were connected to everything, you always were, but you couldn't move those things. Not in front of others. Contained. Quiet. Withheld. 

In Camelot, people were only more afraid. The fear hung around Uther like a heavy aura, and it was infectious. Any whiff of sorcery was hunted to extinction; for so so long you buried it deeper within yourself so nobody would ever find out. Deeper deeper until it was crushed into your chest, pacing at bars, staring out impatiently.

Magic did not corrupt. 

But you were becoming afraid that suppressing it did. 

“At the tavern, again, Merlin?” Arthur may have meant it in jest but it struck you like a lash. 

Idiot.

Fool.

Incompetent. 

Sometimes it was funny, like you were sure it was supposed to be, and always you grinned because it’s all just fun, all just part of your role anyway, but - 

So many times you clutched the secret behind your teeth and seethed inside.

Over and over you risked your life. Bruises, cuts, broken bones. People died. _Your father died_. And you said nothing. Nothing. 

Nothing.

_Nothing._

Just a smile in the morning, “rise and shine!” and Arthur throwing a pillow because he had no idea and if he did have an idea, you would be dead. You _suffered_. Silently. You didn’t want recognition - you could care less about that. You wanted freedom. You wanted to feel safe where you slept. You wanted to feel like everyone around you wouldn’t betray you the instant they learned of the treasure you were so, so proud of, of the part of you you had always cherished.

Magic was you.

And it was trapped.

Gaius urged patience. One day Arthur would see. One day it would be safe. You believed him, you did: you had faith in the future the prophecy promised, and you had faith in Gaius’ words. You believed it, but a year passed, another year another year anotheryearanotheryear

Sometimes you were certain something in you gave up. You think it curled up and died in the corner and that you wouldn’t be able to summon it again, but then - oh, _then._ Arthur was further down in the caves and you were alone with the enemies and it _surged_ , ravenous and eager and furious and you should BE ABLE TO DO THIS ALL THE TIME

It twined up in them like knife-edged tassels and it made little bows that sliced their innards into soup. That wasn’t enough, not even when their souls leave their bodies screaming. Like a shockwave your magic followed, into the cave walls. Rocks collapse; dust sprays. You wanted to bring down more. You could feel the _world_ , you wanted - 

But distantly you sensed Arthur coming nearer. Had to have heard the cave-in. You ripped a path free for yourself and stumbled out, coated in dirt.    


Arthur chewed you out for getting lost, nearly getting yourself killed. Again. What would you do without him to look after you. 

Magic paced in your heart. Back and forth back and forth back and forth.

You were loyal. You’d never betray him, the idea didn’t ever cross your mind, but you wish he’d understand. You wish people would stop trying to kill him, for the love of -

Next time, Arthur was fighting off hordes of an army down the corridor and you found the leader. You smiled, bright and chipper and playful, “I really wish you lot would stop trying to kill the dollop head of a leader we’ve got.” Then the fragile butterfly wing-thin membranes of his body tore and he died at your feet, vomiting blood and chunks of organs. The rest of the army you made short work of. It was pathetically easy, and almost amusing, finding novel ways to wipe each and every one out while either making it look like an accident, a natural result of the battle, or a skillful maneuver by Arthur (you did have him trip at the end, though, in front of all the knights). Only afterward did it occur to you that you didn’t necessarily have to kill them all. Still…

By the end of that battle, you felt better. Pacified, if you weren’t avoiding that word, because it made you out to be - 

“I’m not a monster, am I?” You’d once asked Gauis. You didn’t want to ask him now, because he looked at you differently now. He loved you greatly, like his own son; your appreciation for that never wavered and you were so so relieved he did but he was worried. He was worried. You were worried, too.

Next, it was a sorcerer that wanted Arthur dead. Because magic was outlawed. Because his kind were not allowed. He was like you. You didn’t have to kill him. And you didn’t mean to. But when you saw him lift his hand up, words of an ancient tongue at his lips - 

Save Arthur, that was what you were supposed to do and maybe you didn’t have to do it like that but - 

You curled up later that night in the corner of your room and while crying realized your magic didn’t feel like it used to. It felt acrid and sharp like the harsh chemicals Gauis had stoppered in bottles, except it was bubbling and tearing and aching to be free.

Magic wasn't meant to be contained. You were afraid it wouldn't be for much longer.


End file.
